Where only few trees stood, just enough to cut the sunlight out from the chopping block
The shade invited the juicy ground for a season long feast
To eat and digest the pieces of bark and piles of sawdust
To show it´s satisfaction instead of burping the ground would sprout mushrooms
The axe lay dormant
But whenever there´s wood to cut...
So it the woodcutter´s labour began
The machine like swing takes place between a man´s shoulders and arms
it appears our passion is involved
Piece by piece, splitting the logs as they were our doubts
Doubt after doubt the woodcutter would split
The grain meeting his blade like an awkward encounter in an overcrowded city
The blade following through like a message cutting it´s way into the brain
The handle and it´s curve have now become neck and skull
The beauty of it as it descends into the wood like a shags beek into the pond´s margin
The reflection and repetition yields more than one week firewood
Each time the axe fixes itself into the wood the struggling woodcutter loses grace
And each time his swing misses, a tinge of foolish rage touches his brow
Like the uncertainty of life it´s often hit and miss
Though you should focus
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